The window across the courtyard never needed much coaxing. A sliver of light, a shifting shadow, and Saanjh's pulse was already racing. Tonight, the air hung heavy like damp cotton, the ceiling fan doing little more than pushing the heat around her tiny bedroom. She had switched off the lights an hour ago—not because she intended to sleep, but because this had become a ritual.

Vikram's apartment stood directly opposite hers, close enough that she could make out the droplets of water glistening on his shoulders when the angle was just right. Close enough that she'd unknowingly memorized the rhythm of his evenings. Every night at precisely ten-fifteen, he'd shrug off his shirt, rake a hand through his damp black hair, and reach for the towel draped around his waist.

Saanjh knew she shouldn't look.

Yet somehow, every night, she found herself standing by the window, heart pounding, telling herself it would only be for a second. And every night, that second stretched into minutes.

She told herself she wasn’t a voyeur. A mild observer. A collector of glimpses. But tonight, the glimpse became something else.

He emerged from the bathroom with steam curling behind him, a white towel slung low across his hips. Water beaded along his collarbone, then slid in a slow, deliberate line down the flat plane of his stomach. Her breath caught. She pressed closer to the window frame, the wood warm against her palm.

Then the light in his room dimmed. Not off. Dimmed. A lamp switched to its lowest setting, leaving him in amber shadow. He sat on the edge of the bed. The towel loosened. Fell away and his hand found his cock.

She froze. Her fingers curled against the windowsill, knuckles going bloodless. He wasn’t looking toward her window. His head tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted just enough to catch the lamplight. The slow, languid stroke of his fist made her stomach drop like an elevator with its cables cut.

She should have looked away. She didn’t.

Instead, she backed toward her bed, never breaking the sightline. The mattress met the backs of her knees and she sank onto it, twisting her neck to keep him in view. Her hands moved before she gave them permission. The hem of her cotton nightgown bunched at her waist. Her thighs parted.

The first touch of her fingers against her nipple sent a shiver up the back of her neck. She pinched. Twisted. The sensation bloomed outward, sharp and sweet, and a soft moan escaped before she could trap it behind her teeth.

Across the courtyard, Vikram’s hand kept its rhythm. Up. Down. Up. Down. The lamplight caught the sheen of his skin, the flex of his forearm, the way his hips lifted slightly with each pass.

She kneaded her breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger, her eyes locked on the man who had no idea he was being watched. Her other hand drifted lower, over the soft curve of her belly, through the coarse hair between her legs. She traced the outer edge of her pussy, already slick, already aching.

One finger dipped inside. Her hips bucked at the intrusion. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. In and out. Slow. Matching his rhythm. Her finger curled, exploring the heat of her own body, while her thumb found her clit and pressed.

Vikram’s pace quickened. His free hand braced against the mattress, knuckles white. She could see the tension in his jaw, the way his stomach muscles tightened with each stroke. The sight of him—lost in his own pleasure, unaware of her gaze—sent a fresh wave of wetness down her inner thigh.

She added a second finger. The stretch made her gasp. Her hips rolled against her hand, chasing the pressure, chasing the fullness. Her other hand still worked her breast, smearing sweat across her skin, pinching hard enough to leave marks.

“God,” she whispered, the word barely a breath.

His hand moved faster now. Up and down, up and down, a blur of motion in the amber light. She matched him, her fingers plunging deep, her thumb circling her clit with increasing urgency. The room filled with the wet sounds of her own arousal, the creak of the bedsprings, the ragged pull of her breathing.

She imagined him here. In this room. His mouth on her neck, his teeth grazing her collarbone. His hands replacing hers, rougher, larger, knowing exactly where to press. She imagined his cock sliding into her, filling the emptiness her fingers couldn’t reach.

The fantasy tipped her closer to the edge. Her thighs trembled. Her back arched off the mattress. She pressed harder against her clit, rubbing in tight, frantic circles, her fingers curling inside her to hit that spot that made stars burst behind her eyes.

Across the courtyard, Vikram’s body went rigid. His head fell back, mouth open in a silent groan. She watched his hand slow, then stop, his chest heaving and she shattered.

The orgasm ripped through her, wave after wave, her pussy clenching around her fingers, her thighs shaking uncontrollably. She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste copper. Her hips jerked, riding out the pleasure, her hand still working her clit until the sensation became too much and she had to pull away.

She lay there, panting, her nightgown twisted around her waist, her fingers slick with her own release. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She turned her head toward the window, expecting to see him collapsed on the bed, spent and satisfied. But he wasn’t there.

The bed was empty. The lamp still burned low. The towel lay in a heap on the floor.

She sat up, her heart suddenly pounding for a different reason. Her eyes scanned the room, the shadows, the edges of the window frame. Nothing. He’d moved out of view, perhaps to the bathroom, perhaps to the kitchen.

She exhaled, shaky, and wiped her fingers on the sheet. The post-orgasm haze still softened the edges of the room, made the darkness seem velvet instead of empty. She pulled her nightgown down, the cotton sticking to her damp thighs.

Heat flooded her cheeks, shocked not only by what she had witnessed but by the effect it had on her. Her breathing had turned uneven, and she could feel the dampness clinging uncomfortably to her clothes.

Embarrassed by her own reaction, she quickly drew the curtains shut, refusing to look toward Vikram's house again.

"What is wrong with me?" she whispered under her breath.

Shaking her head, she walked to her wardrobe, pulled out a fresh set of clothes, and changed into them before slipping beneath her blanket. Even with the lights off and her eyes tightly closed, the images refused to leave her mind.

As Saanjh slipped into her soft cotton nightdress and climbed into bed, her thoughts refused to settle. For years, she had lived by rules.

She had been the good daughter, the sincere student, the responsible girl who always chose books over parties and dreams over distractions. Her future was carefully planned—a master's degree, a PhD, a successful career, and someday, perhaps, a family of her own.

But lately... A small, reckless part of her had begun to crave something entirely different.

She wanted to know what passion felt like.

Not the kind she had read about in novels, but the kind that stole your breath and made your heart race. She wanted to feel desired—truly desired—for once in her life. She wanted someone to look at her the way men in romance books looked at the women they couldn't resist.

And somehow, every one of those impossible fantasies wore Vikram Chauhan's face. She knew it was ridiculous. He wasn't the kind of man she could ever imagine building a future with. He was dangerous. Unpredictable. The very definition of trouble.

Yet that was precisely what made him so irresistible.

Soon she would leave this small town to chase her dreams. Her life would become lectures, research papers, internships, and endless hours of studying. She doubted there would be room for reckless fantasies then.

So, for just a little while... She allowed herself to dream.

To imagine what it might feel like if Vikram ever looked at her with the same hunger he seemed to reserve for the women who came and went from his life. To wonder what it would be like if, just once, he chose her.

It was a fantasy she knew would probably never come true and perhaps it was better that way.

With a wistful smile at her own foolish heart, Saanjh pulled the blanket up to her chin, closed her eyes, and let sleep slowly claim her—completely unaware that fate was already preparing to bring Vikram Chauhan into her life in ways she had never imagined.